10 Things I Miss About You
by plaguedbynargles
Summary: John has a dream about an old friend. Post Reichenbach. Johnlock. (Can be read without, though).


**John has a dream about an old friend. Post Reichenbach. Johnlock (though I suppose you can read it without). **

John looked up and down Baker Street. He was standing outside 221B, and it was a cloudy day. Suddenly he was aware; he was dreaming. If this had been reality, there would have been piles of dirty snow on the street corners. He would have felt wind, or sun, or anything. John had gotten very good at telling when he was dreaming. Post-war therapy had taught him how to manipulate dreams that took a wrong turn, although he tried not to do it too often, not since…

He turned towards what used to be his and Sherlock's favorite restaurant. He felt a sort of pull. So that was where this was going. Without another thought, he started on his way. Blank faces of people who didn't matter moved by him in waves, and snapshots of cars he had driven by in the past few days were visible when he looked towards the road. His feet seemed like they couldn't move fast enough, and John felt the familiar frustration of not reaching his destination soon enough.

Suddenly, he was right outside the door, and Lestrade was standing in front of him. He looked much happier than he usually did. Like he had before Sherlock had died…

"Someone wants to see you," he said with a placid expression on his face, opening the door.

_Please, God, _John thought with a massive pang in his chest, _let it be-_

His thought was never finished, however, because as he entered the building and turned to the left, there was Sherlock, sitting at their favorite table, staring out the window. It was evening, like when they had eaten their first meal together. There was a candle on the table, and a few people were scattered throughout the joint. John had forgotten how thin his friend was. He'd forgotten the shape of his curly, dark hair. How could he have let himself forget…?

John calmly walked over to the table, and without a word sat down. Sherlock turned his head towards him, fixing John with his piercing eyes.

"Hello, John."

The former soldier was having trouble getting words to form on his tongue. Furious at himself, he forced them from his throat.

"Hello… Sherlock," his heart was beating like mad. This was a strange dream; he almost was afraid of the detective.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side, studying John.

"I've missed you," he responded quietly. Speaking was becoming a bit easier.

Sherlock's gaze redirected to Moriarty, who was casually chewing a grilled cheese at a nearby table. The former criminal seemed deep in thought.

"You've missed me?" Sherlock frowned, turning back to John, "What would you miss about me?"

It wasn't fishing for compliments; this was Sherlock. He was genuinely asking; studying John like he had just proposed an interesting theory on a case.

Dream John, for some strange reason, seemed completely calm at this point. He had a strange feeling that this was his last chance to tell Sherlock these things. He might as well tell him everything. Everything that he should have said while he had the chance… how could he begin?

"Make me a list," Sherlock sat back, "Tell me what is so loveable about dear old Sherlock." The detective crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. He stared John down, still studying.

"Well, for one thing," John began, "I miss your voice."

"My voice…" Sherlock slowly nodded, "Understandable." He strangely didn't elaborate. No long story about how most grieving people missed the voices of their loved ones the most. With a bit of a shock, John realized his friend hadn't tried to deduce anything about him since he had sat down.

"Yes, it's quiet without you there, Sherlock."

The detective nodded again, "Yes, ok next?" His eyes were downcast.

"Well I do miss," John confessed, almost with a laugh, "how much of a complete _arse _you used to be."

"Really?" Sherlock's eyes wandered back to his former nemesis again. Moriarty had moved on to tomato soup now. "Now why would you miss that?" he said it quietly, more of a question to himself than John.

"It's not an easy thing to explain, Sherlock," John was watching the criminal now, too, as though he was a mildly interesting program on telly, "I just miss the… color, that it brought."

Sherlock turned to John and sat up, uncrossing his legs and resting his hands on the table. John copied the head motion, meeting his friend's sharp eyes.

"In fact," he went on, "I miss a lot of things you would find surprising."

Sherlock cracked a quick sideways smile, "Do tell."

"Your reactions to crap telly, to start with," John came a little closer to a smile now, "And how much you hated the deerhunter."

"Ah, that bloody _hat_!" the detective thumped his hand on the table, "Every damn picture they took of me was with that bloody hat on!"

A grin spread across John's features, and Sherlock returned a small smile.

"You do miss some strange things, John. Though they all I suppose can be classified as 'normal'."

This reminded John of a thought he had had earlier the previous day, "The kitchen's not as nice without your experiments, you know."

"Now why on _Earth_ would any human being in their right mind miss _that_?" Sherlock was incredulous.

"Maybe I'm not in my right mind," John challenged.

"Of course you are, I can tell by your damn dream. You're not a medium, I promise," the detective assured with a look of mock comfort. He seemed displeased.

"Sher- I mean I'm not in my right mind since you left."

Sherlock stared at John, as if the bloody genius hadn't known it already.

"I'm really… I'm not right, Sherlock. None of us are right. Mrs. Hudson is going grey, _I'm _going grey-"

"Sherlock there's someone on the phone for you," Lestrade came to their table with an old fashioned looking phone, "Says it's important."

"Tell them I'll be there momentarily, after I finish speaking with John." The detective didn't look away from his friend. Lestrade seemed to think this was satisfactory and walked away with the phone.

"You can always dye it, if worse comes to worst," Sherlock said matter of factly, as if they hadn't been interrupted.

"It can't get worse than this, Sherlock," John felt black thoughts slipping back into his mind. They had become his best friends ever since he had lost the detective.

"Of course it can, don't be an idiot. You have Ms. Hudson, you have all the skills needed for a decent paying job, you have a home at 221B-"

"THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING, SHERLOCK!" John suddenly stood up. He felt anger surge through his veins. "Don't you understand?! None of that means a _damn thing_ without you!"

Sherlock was still sitting, but his mouth fell open a little in surprise. He hadn't expected that. As John slowly sat down, he began speaking.

"John, it, it does mean something. All of it means something. It wouldn't have meant anything if you hadn't met me, but you did and… that makes it worth something," John didn't remember a time Sherlock had used a voice so soft.

"Sherlock, you… you don't understand. This isn't something you can rationalize. I just… I miss how you stole me an ashtray from damn _Buckingham Palace_ and I miss how you cared for Ms. Hudson and treated her like family and I miss-"

"Well I could steal you a salt shaker from here, but I don't think you'd get to enjoy it for long," the detective said thoughtfully.

"How… how long will I be here with you?" John felt ready to cry.

"Nonono don't do that!" Sherlock grabbed a napkin and reached across the table to give it to his friend, "If you cry, you'll wake up."

"Then why the hell did you get me a napkin?" John asked incredulously.

"Think of it as a security blanket," Sherlock smirked. As John chuckled, he followed suit. "So, any more reasons you miss me?" John could have sworn those were borderline puppy dog eyes.

John thought for a moment. He was embarrassed, but what the hell? It was his dream after all…

"Cheekbones…" he mumbled.

"_Cheekbones?_" the whole restaurant was filled with the detective's deep laugh now, "I jump off a building, and you miss my _cheekbones_? What on Earth did you say at my funeral, John?"

"No! I mean-" John was laughing too, now, "I mean I miss seeing you, Sherlock. I miss your face."

As Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, Lestrade came running back. He seemed flustered.

"Sherlock, he says it's really important. It's an urgent matter. I can't keep him on hold for much longer…"

"Lestrade, I'll be there in one minute," he responded calmly, ignoring the look of panic on John's face. Lestrade with an impatient huff ran away with the phone again.

"Now," Sherlock turned to John again, "Any last things you would like to add?"

"The stupid things we did together," John didn't hesitate, "and… I would be lost without you, Sherlock. I _am_ lost without you."

"John, really," Sherlock gave him a look of annoyance, "You were never truly without me."

Suddenly, Lestrade was back again. "_Sherlock…_"

"I know, I know…" the detective got up from the table. Just before he took the phone, he gave John a quick wink, like when they had first met, and then he was gone.

John woke drenched in sweat. He felt as though his chest had been trampled on by a horse. His breathing was rapid, and he wondered if this was what a panic attack felt like.

Then it hit him. Like a wall of bricks. He was never going to see Sherlock again. This was the end of it. No more cases, no more sarcasm, no more kitchen experiments, no more…

He broke. He felt himself physically break, and John didn't know which way was up or down. He wept for the end of the dream, he wept because of Moriarty's twisted mind, he wept for what could have been, he wept for what was going to become of his life, and lastly, he wept because Sherlock Holmes, of 221B Baker Street, was dead. He was rotting. In a coffin, underground. The maggots were eating his brain that once had been so brilliant and developed. And the world would remember him as a traitor. As a fraud. Someone to look at with disgust. And so John cried. He didn't get any more sleep that night.

At some point, John stopped. He couldn't cry anymore. He was so, so tired. He looked at the clock. 11:15 a.m, it read.

_ How many hours did I cry for?_ John half heartedly wondered. He felt himself coming back to reality a bit. It was time to be an adult. Time to let go. He had had his cry, and now he needed to do the same thing he had done with all the rest of his dead friends. Forget. Life would go on. It always did. He needed to move on. Maybe this was Sherlock's way of telling him to.

It was a sunny day outside. Perfect weather for a walk.

_Yes_, John thought, _I need a good walk._

However, as he walked to the kitchen to brew himself some tea, there was a knock at the door.

_Who the hell visits at 11:15 on a Sunday?_ John wondered. He hoped it wasn't too obvious that he had spent the night crying.

John grasped and turned the knob, just hoping that whatever it was, it wasn't going to take long.

"Hello John."

**A/N: What did you guys think? Oddly, this idea came to me in a dream! I know, I'm a loser. Most girls dream about boys and steamy makeout sessions… I dream about Sherlock. I tried to base this off of what I dreamt. Most of the scenes were the same and I actually pretty much woke up with the entire plot in my head… so you can imagine school was fun the next day. Honestly, there is nothing more painful than having to do US History when you have a great fanfic idea bouncing around in your head! Am I right? No? No one…? Well, R&R if ya can! And I really hope you enjoyed this. I think this might be one of my favorite things I have written in a long time. **


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